verdant and wistful

in a canyon, on a hill, in a fog, deep in a dreaming state, deep in it. finding new ways to float in it all. it can get tiring, learning all the new ways to rest. the next one differs from the other

I have been looking around and feeling with a mix of grief and wonder, I get dizzy when I think of all the people I’ve been in the last four years. I search and search and still continue to find myself, I’m very good at leaving bread crumbs behind.

I get outside and look up and watch hawks instead, I get up and walk the hill and try to count my breaths in sets of 10, I stretch my arms overhead and pull fists of cloud down and meditate on how lush the green can get—walk a bit further into a trail of Russian Thistle and watch sparrows make their way through it, delicate and precise and light as any other of it’s stems. the canyon is verdant and impossibly loud, everything is singing and the hum of the freeway is a faithful accompaniment.

I watch the grass sway and don’t think about much.

I walk the steps back home, I find my way back.